


Sugar and spice

by Ferrera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Dean Winchester, Caring Sam Winchester, Chubby Dean Winchester, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Fluff and Smut, Insecure Dean Winchester, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Panty Kink, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Season/Series 08, Slight D/s Elements, Slight feminization, Top Sam Winchester, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 16:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: That's what Dean's made of.





	Sugar and spice

**Author's Note:**

> This got slightly out of hand, but in a pretty good way, I think. Thanks to the amazing [Kelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinginthesecrettrees) for the beta <3

The very best thing about the bunker, to Dean, is that they finally have a kitchen where he can cook and bake everything his heart desires. And oh, does his heart desire. Burgers, burritos, pancakes, a ton of different pies, waffles, hash browns, club sandwiches, meatloaf, tacos, pizza (he even makes the crust himself): all the food he’s craving, all the food he likes to eat on the road but tastes even better home-made. He tries all kinds of recipes he finds online, writes the best ones down in a little notebook he keeps in one of the kitchen drawers. 

The only downside: they’ve only been living here for four months or so now, and he's already gained a couple pounds. 

Or maybe a little more than a couple of pounds, Dean thinks as he looks into the mirror. It’s not _so_ noticeable in the stomach area— he can hide it quite well under all the layers he wears, but it looks like he’s wearing freakin’ _skinny_ _jeans_ these days, and he no longer needs his belt to hold up his jeans, the belt buckle only digging uncomfortably into his belly whenever he sits down. 

He lifts his shirt, exposing his slightly bulging belly. He’s always been a little soft there, never had a stomach as hard and flat as Sam’s, but this— well. This is more than just a little soft. 

Sam hasn’t commented on his new eating habits or his more pudgy form so far, which is kind of surprising, given how much his brother cares about eating healthy and working out. They haven’t slept together in a while either, so maybe he hasn’t really noticed, or maybe— oh god, it’s not because of Dean’s extra more-than-a-couple pounds that they haven’t been sleeping together, is it? If that’s the case— _fuck_, Sam could’ve _said_ something, then, could’ve made a snarky comment about all the food he’s been cooking or suggest that Dean come run with him in the morning or something, but yeah, okay, Dean knows his brother and he wouldn’t really do that, he’d rather give him silent hints like— like not sleeping with him. _Fuck_. 

He hears Sam approaching in the hallway and pulls his shirt down, looks around for his flannel, but before he can grab it from the nearby chair he draped it on, Sam walks in, asks him what he’s doing here, and well, this is one of the very few bedrooms that have a large mirror in it, but Dean can’t _say_ that, so he just mumbles something about seeing if there were nicer bedrooms than the one he picked, maybe? all while being overly aware how much his shirt is straining around his upper arms and chest as he pulls his flannel back on. And Sam can see him acting all— self-conscious, jumpy, nothing like his usual self, but he still asks _why don’t you come to my room, then, I mean, we haven’t— in a while, you know, _and God, Dean can’t really say no to that, and he doesn’t _want_ to say no to that, aching to feel Sam dragging those big fucking paws all over his body, but he’s also just a tiny bit insecure, maybe. 

_No need to act like a freakin’ girl_, he tells himself, _he asked you now, didn’t he? See, it’s not as if he doesn’t want to have sex with you._ So he changes into pajama pants and a long-sleeved sleeping shirt in his own room, then goes to Sam’s, finds him lying on the bed wearing only a pair of soft, worn sweatpants. He’s so fucking _ripped_, and it’s making Dean’s mouth water and his dick twitch, but at the same time, it makes him even more aware of his own, less built body. 

Sam notices his insecurity, his hesitation, of course he does. He sits up, moves to the side of the bed and plants his feet on the floor, gestures for Dean to come closer. Dean shuts the door, even if there’s no one but them in the bunker anyway, walks towards Sam until he’s standing in the space between his thighs, biting his lip.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, eyes slowly traveling up Dean’s body before meeting his eyes, “I feel like you’ve been hiding from me.” 

“I haven’t,” Dean croaks, and he _hasn’t_, right, it’s not as if he can really hide from Sam while living together with him in the bunker, but maybe he’d been a little distant lately, been sleeping alone a little more often. He tries to hold Sam’s gaze as Sam studies him, but he winces a little when Sam places his hands on his sides, fingers digging into his soft flesh. 

“If you don’t want me to touch you, that’s— that’s okay,” Sam says, “just gotta tell me,” and he looks— _sad_, actually, at the thought that maybe, Dean doesn’t want to be touched by him anymore. “And I know I asked you to come to my room because I wanted— but we don’t have to, we can just sleep—” 

“No,” Dean says in a rush, “Sammy, it’s not— not like that. I do want you to— to touch me. I came here because I— I want that.” 

He watches a slight frown appear on Sam’s face, watches him sliding his hands down a little, to his— his freaking _love_ _handles_, they can be called now, Dean thinks as Sam squeezes a little, the warmth of his hands seeping through the single layer Dean’s wearing. 

“Is it because of this?” Sam asks quietly, fingers tightening around his waist, “God, Dean, you’re not— you’re not insecure because you’ve gained a little bit of weight, are you?” and Dean croaks “Maybe,” feels his cheeks heating up, and _christ_, he _really_ needs to stop being such a freaking girl about this. 

“Oh, Dean,” Sam mutters, shaking his head a little, lips twitching into a small smile. When he looks back up at Dean, he’s got this soft, fond look in his eyes, as if he can’t believe his big brother can be self-conscious about gaining weight, and okay, considering that Dean has never made an effort to stay fit in his life, that seems fair. 

“You’ve gained, what? A little more than fifteen pounds maybe?” Sam slides his hands under Dean’s shirt, places them on Dean’s belly, and Dean has to keep himself from sucking in his stomach. 

“Enough for you to notice,” Dean mutters, looking down at Sam’s hands under his shirt. 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “but Dean— hey, look me in the eyes— It’s not like I mind, okay. I like seeing you puttering around in the kitchen, humming Zeppelin songs while you’re trying new recipes. I like to see you enjoying the food you made. And I don’t think those extra pounds look bad on you.” His hands are on Dean’s sides now, softly stroking up and down under the shirt. Sam’s trying to comfort him, Dean knows, reassure him, and maybe those extra pounds don’t look _bad_ on him but they don’t really look good either, do they, and maybe it’s not so bad _yet_ but it’s about to get out of hand if he doesn’t cut it down soon. 

“Come on, take that shirt off,” Sam murmurs, pushing the fabric up, “let me see you.” 

Dean swallows hard, reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, drops it on the ground, and Sam— Sam’s humming in appreciation at the sight of him, eyes raking all over his pudgy belly, his love handles, his not-so-flat chest, and fuck, Sam doesn’t say anything about it, but Dean knows his chest looks a bit like that of a teen girl who’s just started to grow tits; small, perky little swells where he used to be completely flat. He wipes his clammy hands on his pajama pants, tries to keep himself from crossing his arms over his chest. 

“God, Dean,” Sam murmurs, brings his hands to Dean’s hips, fingers digging into Dean’s skin while he keeps looking his fill. “Look at you. You’re still as freaking beautiful as ever.”

Dean’s fairly sure Sam’s just exaggerating to make him feel better, except— except he’s staring at Dean’s fucking _tits_ now like a starved man, licking his lower lip like he wants to put his mouth on them. He drags his hands up to Dean’s chest, cups the little swells and Dean can’t help but moan at the feeling of Sam touching his chest for what might as well be the first time in a freaking _month_. 

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam says, voice sounding a little hoarse as he palms Dean’s chest, and he looks a little in awe too, staring at his own big hands as they cover Dean’s— fucking _tits_. “Never fails to amaze me, the way you don’t see just how goddamn beautiful you are. Not when you were seventeen and prettier than all the girls in whatever town we passed, and still not now you’re thirty-four.” 

Dean feels himself blushing at Sam’s words, his stomach pulling. He’d heard it so many times when he was younger, and yet he’d never seen what other people saw when he looked into the mirror. _Girls_ can be called beautiful, can be called pretty. Not someone like him. And definitely not now, with the weight he gained. 

“Dean, hey, you with me?” 

Sam’s got his hands back on Dean’s sides, just resting there. He’s frowning a little as Dean meets his eyes. 

“I wanna touch you,” Sam says, “is that okay?” 

“You already are,” Dean points out, voice a little unsteady, and Sam smiles, shakes his head, says, “Not the way I want to,” and Dean’s stomach flips. 

“You can,” he croaks, and then Sam’s roaming those big hands all over his chest, his upper arms, his belly, his hips, touching him like he’d been aching to touch Dean like this all along, and Dean feels the anxiety in his chest slowly seeping away. Sam just keeps rubbing and grabbing and kneading, tireless, and Dean can’t quite hold back the little pants spilling from his lips. God, he’d missed Sam’s hands on him more than he’d like to admit. Sam slides his hands down his back, to his ass, his thighs, kneading through the fabric of Dean’s pajama pants, then wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, and _oh_, pulls him closer and then onto the mattress with him, and Dean had sort of forgotten just how strong Sam is, how much he likes to manhandle Dean, and at least he still does, at least he doesn’t think Dean’s too heavy to be manhandled now. Sam lies down on the bed and pulls Dean towards him, Dean’s back pressed up to Sam’s strong chest, ass nestling against Sam’s crotch, and not in a million years would Dean say out loud how much he loves being little spoon, but Sam knows, anyway. 

Sam’s got an arm wrapped tight around him, holding him close as he nuzzles against Dean’s neck. “You have no idea how hot you are,” he murmurs in his ear, “God, Dean, I’ve been looking at you a lot. Been watching you slowly filling out those jeans. Been trying to get a glimpse of your bare skin, too, waiting for you to bend over or raise your arms so your shirt would ruck up, but you’ve been so careful, wouldn’t let me look.” 

“M’sorry,” Dean mumbles, “didn’t think you’d wanna see.” It’s a little easier to talk when Sam can’t really see his face, when he just feels Sam breathing evenly against his skin, calming, comforting. “Thought I might disgust you.” 

“Dean, god—” 

“‘Cause you’re so much into that healthy lifestyle thing, and then there’s me, eating like a pig—” 

“Dean, _hey_,” Sam says as he sits up a little, cups Dean’s cheeks and makes him look him in the eyes. “Didn’t you listen to what I said earlier? I love seeing you in your element, bustling around in the kitchen. I love watching you eat, seeing you slowly relax, letting go of all the stress, all the chaos in our lives for a while. You deserve that. I’m the last person to tell you what you should eat or that you need to exercise. I just want you to feel good, Dean.” Sam lies back down, pulls Dean in again, his arm resting strong and heavy over Dean’s side. 

“‘S long as you don’t mind,” Dean whispers, slowly relaxing against Sam’s warm, solid body. Sam moves a hand up to Dean’s upper arm and gives a firm, reassuring squeeze, then slides it down to Dean’s bare stomach, cupping the shape of it. “How am I gonna get it through your head,” Sam murmurs in his ear, thumb rubbing soothingly across his skin, “that it’s not that I _don’t mind_, Dean. I think you look really fucking good with those extra pounds.” 

“Really,” Dean manages, incredulous. 

“Really,” Sam confirms, nuzzling against his neck before leaning back again, propping himself up on one arm a little. “God, look at you, Dean. You’re the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen. Thought so when I was twelve, and I still think so now.”

That _word_ again. It’s making him feel all warm and fuzzy, but also a little— _embarrassed_, somehow, a little disconcerted, maybe, the word so different from the words he’d use to describe himself, so different from the way he wants the world to see him. 

“Can’t believe you’re callin’ me that,” he says quietly, the words muffled into the pillow. 

Sam lets out a soft laugh. “What, _pretty_? Dean, have you looked into the mirror?” 

“Not so much, lately,” Dean admits. Sam’s still rubbing his stomach. It feels good, the curve of his belly pressing against Sam’s big, warm hand. 

“You are, though. Pretty. Pretty like a girl.” 

“Shut up,” Dean huffs, but the warmth in his belly spreads and he nestles himself closer to Sam’s body. 

“Got those pretty girl looks,” Sam continues, his hand sliding up to cup Dean’s cheek, “plush lips, perfect nose, long eyelashes.” He lets go of Dean’s face, drags his hand down to Dean’s chest. “Got the body, too. All smooth skin, barely any hair.” He rubs across the center of Dean’s chest, where he’s always been completely hairless. Dean used to think he’d eventually start growing chest hair, too, just like Dad, maybe not quite as dark and thick, but— yeah. Thirty-four, and his chest is still as smooth as it’s ever been. He’s long given up on hoping he might look as tough as Dad one day. 

“Smooth like a girl,” Sam murmurs into his ear. He cups Dean’s chest, the two little swells there fitting nicely into the palm of his hand. “Got some cute little tits too, now.” 

“Ohmygod,” Dean pants, “_Sam_,” but Sam shushes him, palms his new curves. 

“You feel so good, Dean,” he says, his voice a little gravelly, reassuring Dean and turning him on all at once, “so good under my hands. Got the softest little tits.” 

Dean’s stomach pulls at Sam’s words and he feels the tips of his ears heating up. He can’t believe Sam’s _saying_ this, freaking— _sweet-talking_ him or something, can’t believe how much he _likes_ it, hearing Sam say those things, how it’s making him go lax in Sam’s hold, except for his dick, chubbing up steadily in his pajama pants. 

Sam’s pinching his nipples now, mean little twists that go straight to his dick as well. “Cutest tits I’ve ever seen,” he says, “could touch ‘em all day if you’d let me. Come up behind you while you’re cooking, slip my hands under your shirt and feel you up.” 

Dean tugs his pillow against his face, trying to smother the pathetic little noises spilling from his mouth. If Sam wants, _fuck_, he’d totally play housewife for him. Sort of is, already, anyway, he cooks for him at least once a day, and— he’s been thinking a little about it, too, cooking for Sam while wearing the apron he’d found in one of the kitchen cabinets, and maybe— maybe something pretty underneath. Been thinking about Sam walking into the kitchen as he’s stirring the pots, about Sam coming up behind him, placing those big, warm hands on his waist, pressing up to Dean so he can feel the swell of Sam’s dick against his ass. 

Sam gives his nipples a break, strokes his side again, and then, slowly, slides his hand down to Dean’s ass, rests it there, the wide curve of his palm cupping him perfectly. 

“And God, your ass, Dean. Love how round it’s getting. Jeans’re getting tight, huh? Love how you’re filling them out these days.” 

Dean pushes his ass back against Sam’s palm, still panting into the pillow. God, Sam’s big fucking hands, they fit so well around all his new curves. If Dean had known how good they’d still feel on him, cupping and kneading all his soft, rounded places with so much love, he never would’ve kept Sam at a distance. 

He feels Sam’s face closer to his, suddenly, feels his warm breath against the shell of his ear as he murmurs, “Did you bring your panties when we moved into the bunker, Dean? Would love to see you filling those out.” 

Dean feels his face going bright red. He figured Sam would’ve forgotten about them by now, or maybe decided to never bring them up again, but yeah, apparently not. He’d told Sam about Rhonda, a couple years ago, a while after they started sleeping together. Told him about what she’d made him do. He’d sort of confessed to Sam how much he liked it, but he never really explained himself, couldn’t quite tell Sam what exactly it was that made him feel so good— how delicate he’d felt, how he’d felt as if maybe, looking like that, he could drop the tough guy attitude for a while, even if he didn’t quite dare to with Rhonda. He’d brushed it off as a joke, back then, as something he’d only done to entertain her, and maybe he’d fooled her, but he couldn’t fool himself. He still remembers how good the smooth satin had felt when he’d first pulled it up his legs and over his half-hard dick, still remembers feeling a little dazzled as he’d looked into the mirror, seeing himself looking so soft, so vulnerable, realizing that maybe, he could really be pretty. 

Even told Sam how he’d finally dared to buy himself a pair years later, while Sam was at Stanford and he and Dad had split up for a while, the risk of either of them finding out minimalized. They were baby blue, not pink like Rhonda’s, but made of the same silky soft fabric, smooth against his skin. He’d dug them up out of a hidden pocket he’d sewn into his duffle and shown Sam when his brother asked, but when Sam had said _c’mon, put them on for me, wanna see you wearing ‘em_, he’d chickened out, and Sam had never mentioned them again. 

Until now. “Tell me, Dean,” Sam murmurs in his ear, “did you bring ‘em?” 

“Dunno where they are,” Dean manages, his face glowing red-hot. He’s not lying. Hell, he hasn’t seen them for ages. The last time he’d worn them had been before he lived with Lisa, and he sure hadn’t brought them along to her place, no way he’d wanted her to find out. 

“Don’t think they’d still fit, anyway,” he croaks as Sam slips his hand under the waistband of his pajama pants, inside his boxers. 

“We could get you a new pair,” Sam murmurs as he starts palming Dean’s bare ass, “would you like that, Dean? A pretty pair of panties, any color and shape you’d like, stretching nicely over your dick, your ass.” 

Dean lets out a ragged _yeah_, eyes squeezed tight. 

“Gotta show me this time,” Sam says, “wanna see you wearing ‘em, Dean, wanna see all that satin and lace stretched over your ass,” and God, Dean can’t quite believe Sam _wants_ that, to see him in some tiny girly panties, looking all— exposed, vulnerable, probably more than a bit silly; can’t quite believe Sam would like to see that not because he wants to make fun of Dean or embarrass him a little, but because he actually thinks Dean would look _good_. 

“Will you wear them for me, Dean?” Sam murmurs, still kneading Dean’s ass, “make yourself all pretty for me?” 

“Yeah,” Dean pants, “yeah, Sammy,” and Sam groans, digs his fingers harder into Dean’s soft skin. Dean pushes his ass back against Sam’s hand to get more friction, to maybe get Sam to slip a finger down his crack, but instead, Sam withdraws his hand, pulls Dean’s pajama pants down the curve of his ass until the waistband’s digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, Dean’s hard dick slapping heavy against the curve of his belly. Sam worms the arm he’d been resting on under Dean, grabs Dean’s hips with both hands and hauls Dean towards him, his ass flush with Sam’s crotch, and _oh_— Sam’s hard, really hard, Dean can feel it clearly through the fabric of the sweatpants he’s still wearing, his thick length pressing eagerly against the swell of his butt, and fuck, Dean had been too self-conscious before to notice what all of this was doing to _Sam_. 

“Sammy,” he croaks as Sam grinds against him, “_oh_, you’re— you’re so hard,” and Sam huffs out a laugh, presses his hips harder against Dean’s ass, murmurs, “yeah, fuck, what’d you think, Dean,” but Dean’s too dazed to think straight, it’s all just— a little overwhelming, the way Sam’s touching all his soft curves like he can’t seem to get enough, the things he’s saying, and Dean still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Sam actually wants him like this. 

Sam reaches around him, gets one hand on Dean’s dick and the other back on Dean’s chest, rubbing over the little swells as he starts jerking Dean loosely. “Always leaking so much,” Sam says, and Dean glances down, sees the wet traces on his belly, sees Sam playing with the pre-come dribbling from his slit, smearing it around the head. “Getting wet like a girl.” 

Dean _nngghhs_ into the pillow, feels himself pulsing out even more pre-come at Sam’s words. It’s not even fair that Sam’s saying that, he gets rather wet too, they’re brothers, after all. Dean bets there’s a wet spot forming in his sweats by now, with how much he’s rubbing against Dean’s ass, and he’s gonna tell Sam, except Sam just keeps talking. “Can’t get enough of your sweet tits,” he groans, cupping and kneading at Dean’s chest, “Might get you a cute little bra as well, to go with the panties.” He’s jerking Dean a little faster now, and it’s good, it’s so fucking good, but Dean just needs— 

“Sammy,” he pants, “want you to— my ass, can you just put—” and Sam murmurs, “Want me to finger that little pussy, baby?” and Dean’s squirming against Sam’s hard, solid body, cheeks on fire as he nods his head. Sam lets go of his dick and drags his hand down to Dean’s ass, slips a finger between his cheeks, slides his other hand from Dean’s chest down to his dick before Dean can start whining. 

“So sensitive down here,” Sam murmurs as Dean almost starts sobbing into the pillow at Sam’s touch, “God, you’re so sensitive _everywhere_ Dean, love how you’re responding to my touch.” 

Sam withdraws his hand and Dean hears him getting his fingers wet with spit, then feels his slick fingers sliding back between his cheeks. Sam rubs them all over his hole before he slowly pushes one thick finger inside. 

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam groans, jerking Dean a little faster as he pushes in deeper, “little pussy feels so good.” 

Dean’s panting wetly into the pillow as Sam starts fucking his finger in and out of him. Sam’s not even actively trying to hit his prostate, Dean can tell, just loosening him up, but Dean feels so fucking sensitive, his whole body on fire, and every time Sam pushes his finger back in, Dean’s body trembles with pleasure. 

“Tight fucking pussy,” Sam groans, pulling his finger out, and Dean hears him spitting, feels him shoving two fingers back in, “bet it’ll feel so good around my dick, wanna fuck you on your hands and knees, Dean, wanna see that ass jiggle for me,” and then Dean’s already coming, too worked up from all Sam’s touching and talking to hold his orgasm off, shaking in Sam’s arms as he pulses wet all over his hand. Sam keeps stroking and fingering him until he starts wincing, too sensitive and sore, then pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the sheets. 

Sam pulls him closer and holds him tight to his chest, one hand cupping his belly again, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into his skin, and Dean would tell him it’s not needed, that he’s fine, but it’s— nice, more than nice, comforting and reassuring, gives him some time to let everything sink in. 

Sam _liked_ it, likes— _this_, Dean’s soft body, and being able to touch it, to grab and rub and knead, likes it when Dean just lets him, when Dean gets all pliant, all supple and malleable under Sam’s hands, allowing Sam to have him any way he wants him. Dean’s still a little bit embarrassed about how much he liked all of it. And _christ_, Sam even wants to see him wearing panties and whatnot, he _really_ wants to see Dean like that, for Dean to expose himself like that, to show his vulnerability, and that’s just— yeah, not something Dean thought Sam would, to see his big brother in such a different way. 

Sam’s lazily rubbing his dick against Dean’s ass, Dean realizes after a while, still hard because of _him_. He pushes his ass back against the swell of Sam’s cock, making Sam groan. 

“Sammy,” Dean says, his voice coming out all hoarse, “you can fuck me, just gotta finger me a little more,” but Sam sits up a little, shakes his head, says, “Wanna try something else,” and Dean feels his body pulling away, hears him rummaging around in the nightstand drawer before he feels Sam’s warmth again. His pajama pants are being pulled further down and there’s the sound of the lube being uncapped, a squelching sound as Sam gets some in his hand, and then— _oh_, Sam pushes his slick hand between Dean’s thighs, and Dean catches up with him. 

“Your thighs feel so good,” Sam murmurs while he gets Dean’s inner thighs all slick and wet, “wanna fuck ‘em, wanna feel all that soft flesh around my cock.” Dean hears him fisting his dick, all filthy wet sounds as he slicks it up, then feels him pushing his hot, throbbing cock between his thighs. Sam lets out a long, deep groan, the sound vibrating against the shell of Dean’s ear. He starts fucking Dean’s thighs with slow, languid thrusts, and fuck, Dean’s not even supposed to _feel_ anything from this, is he, but his inner thighs are so tender, and the feeling of Sam’s hard cock fucking between them is making his spent dick twitch again. 

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam groans against his neck, fingers digging into Dean’s hip, “you’re so soft and warm between your legs, feels so fucking good,” and Dean blisses out a little again. His body is completely lax and pliable, available for Sam to use in any way he wants, and Sam’s doing just that, speeding up, hips snapping hard and fast as he fucks in between Dean’s thighs, but he’s also showering him in praise and love, still murmuring in Dean’s ear, fingers still kneading and caressing. He can’t seem to get enough of Dean, and Dean hasn’t felt so good in his body in a long time. 

“Your thighs,” Sam pants, and how the fuck is he still talking, all Dean can do is mewl and whine as Sam fucks him with all his strength, “your thighs are fucking heaven, so smooth and thick, feels so fucking good around my cock,” and Dean feels his whole body glowing hot at Sam’s words— Sam only swears like that when he’s really far gone. Dean clenches his thighs together and Sam groans at the increasing pressure on his dick, his hips fucking into the soft flesh even harder. It feels like he’s gonna make Dean’s inner thighs fucking _bruise_. 

“Sammy,” Dean pants, tensing his muscles, trying to make it so good for Sam, “wanna feel you come, wanna feel you creaming my thighs,” and Sam lets out a low grunt, swears under his breath again, fingers digging into Dean’s skin even harder. He’s starting to feel over-sensitive and raw where Sam’s fucking him, probably gonna feel a little sore tomorrow, but Dean keeps clenching his muscles as hard as he can, quivering with the effort, and then Sam’s his hips stutter against the back of Dean’s thighs and Dean feels his dick pulsing, hot come spilling all over his tender skin, easing the way as Sam continues to fuck him. Dean’s still clenching his aching thighs, milking Sam’s dick until Sam groans and pulls back. He scoops Dean up against his chest again, panting hard into his ear as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, slipping a hand down between his own wet thighs, cheeks heating up a little once again as his fingers gliding through the mess of lube and come splattered across his raw, tender skin. “Made a mess of me.” He wipes his hand on the sheets, feels Sam grin against his shoulder. 

“I’ll clean you up,” Sam says, rests a hand on Dean’s aching, quivering thigh, “give me ten minutes and I’ll get a washcloth, take care of you.” He nuzzles behind Dean’s ear. “You like that, huh. Me taking care of you. Being a little passive, a little submissive.” 

Dean cringes slightly at that word, croaks, “_Sammy_,” like a warning, but it’s weak, and Sam only pulls him closer, keeps talking. 

“God, Dean, you’re so— Don’t always gotta play the hard guy when you’re with me. I’m your brother, Dean, you can’t hide from me. I don’t want you to.” He’s rubbing Dean’s thigh again. For a guy who uses his hands to kill, he’s got the softest touch. Those facts still, somehow, don’t fit together in Dean’s head. 

“I just want you to be yourself when you’re with me,” Sam says, “I won’t think any less of you. You’re still the one I look up to the most, Dean. I admire how determined you are, how strong and skilled. You’re the bravest man I know. But I also love your soft edges. I don’t want you to hide them from me.” 

Deep down, Dean already knew Sam would always, _always_ accept him, any part of him, but still, the reassurance, that’s good, that’s just what he needs, and doesn’t Sam always know what he needs? He wants to tell Sam as much, and yet, he can’t quite get the words out. Even after exposing himself to Sam like he did, he still can’t voice all the thoughts that crossed his mind tonight. He knows Sam doesn’t expect him to talk, God, it’s probably the last fucking thing Sam expects from him, but still, he deserves to know how grateful Dean is to have a brother like Sam, someone who understands him and gives him just what he needs without even having to ask for it. He’ll bake Sam something tomorrow, something he knows Sam’ll like, sweet but not _too_ sugary, a banana bread maybe, or oatmeal cookies, and Sam— Sam will understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thanks to everyone who encouraged me to write this in the first place, I hope y'all liked the way it turned out. Let me know what you think <3
> 
> Tumblr post can be found [here](https://saintedevote.tumblr.com/post/186731340659/the-very-best-thing-about-the-bunker-to-dean-is) if you'd like to save/reblog.


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